


The Center of the World

by turntechgodmeds



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: Drug Addiction, Drug Use, M/M, Sadstuck
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-09
Updated: 2013-01-09
Packaged: 2017-11-24 07:55:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/632163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turntechgodmeds/pseuds/turntechgodmeds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Dave in a co-dependent relationship. Dave enables John's drug addiction and cares for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Center of the World

You hear him muttering to himself and you squeeze your eyes shut, willing your body to go back to sleep. But it doesn't and you can feel the bed shake as he shifts along the edge. His voice is low, the steady stream of nonsense unending. You're sure this isn't the future you'd always imagined. You roll over to stare at his back, the contours of his spine; vertebra poking from beneath waxy flesh like the lightest tap from you could force sharp angles of bone through his skin. For a moment you contemplate hitting him. Would it feel good? Would it make you feel better about the situation? Deep down a part of you thinks he deserves it for what he's done to himself, for what he's done to both of you. Maybe it would wake him up. But you know you could never hurt him, and maybe in the long run that's worse.

It takes you a few more seconds to realize he's not talking to himself; he's crying. He's crying and you're laying here fantasizing about hitting him. Guilt churns your stomach and you curse yourself as you push up onto your elbows, reaching a hand out to gently caress the spine you moments ago thought about breaking.

"Come back to bed."

He jumps when he hears your voice but not when he feels your touch. No. He melts into that and for a moment you think it's going to be alright. He will come back to bed and let you hold him until the shaking stops and the tears don't come. But you know thats wishing too much. You know hes too far gone and at this point the most you can hope for is that he initiates a session of bleary eyed, fumbling sex. You like to think it calms him, brings him back to you for even a short amout of time but there's always a distance that haunts his eyes. 

"John."

He turns when he hears his name and another pang of guilt rips your chest. Peering at you from twin caves, dulled cerulean irises searching for your face, pin pricks for pupils and you're not even sure he's focused on you. You feel tears stinging the corners of your own eyes as you stare at the boy you fell in love with so long ago; at what you let him become. It kills you to know that this is partly your fault. If you'd paid more attention, been around more, maybe if you'd told him more often how much you loved him. Would the course of events leading you both here be different then? Sometimes you like to think so. Sometimes you like to think if you'd been a better boyfriend that he never would have gotten on that bus. Then maybe you wouldn't be here, watching him while his thin frame is wracked with muscle spasms, staring down at the track marks on his arms that seem to mock you every time your eyes stray back to them. Each one a glaring reminder that everything is your fault.

You roll over onto one elbow, fingers circling his frail arm and pull him to you. Pulling him down to brush your lips over the tears streaking the sharp angle of his cheeks. If only you could erase everything else as easily. He comes to you. Bending in impossible ways and you can feel the cold in his bones as you pull him to your chest, cradling him as your lips continue their trek over his face.

"I love you john. It's going to be alright. I promise I'll go today and get some more."

You hate the way his body stills when the words leave your mouth. Sometimes you feel like its all an act, that he knows just what buttons to push, just how to manipulate you into getting him what he needs. At least... you want to believe that hes still capable of such complex thought process. 

"I love you John. You know that right?"

His eyes meet yours and that far away look is still there but he hears you. He hears you, and he smiles and for a moment you see the boy you fell in love with trying to come through. The boy who'd been so lost after the death of his father but still managed to smile every time he saw you. And when you got the call about your brother it had been John who was there to pull you from the floor. It had been John who had driven you to the police station. It had been John who'd stood by your side while the sheet was pulled back; and it had been John who's chest you had screamed into. Screamed until you were hoarse because half your brother's face was missing.

Your lips meet his and for a little bit you can pretend that everything is ok as you pull him on top of you. He's feverish, shaking like a leaf, but that doesn't hold him back from devouring every part of you, and you him. He's yours again, even for a short amount of time. He's yours and not the drugs and when you both climax he clings to you and calls out your name, his voice ringing sharp in the silence of the early morning.

And you pretend everything is ok.

\---------------------------------

He watches you from over his bowl of cereal, that hopeful innocence awash over his face as he gazes intently while you pull on your scrubs. The dull red top over black long sleeved shirt and a pair of black scrub pants. He's watching you and he's watching the clock. Already counting down the hours until your shift ends. Counting the time it takes for you to drive home. He's hopeful and you are resigned to getting him what he needs. 

"How long are you going to be gone?"

You cringe at the whine in his voice, instantly hating yourself for it. 

"It's an 8 hour shift John. I'll be gone about 9 hours, you'll be fine."

You loop the lanyard with your ID on it over your head, tucking the slim rope into your scrubs before pulling on your hoodie. His eyes are still on you, the same pleading hopefulness creasing his worn features. A heavy sigh escapes you and you pace over to the couch, taking the untouched bowl of cereal from him and setting it on the coffee table before sitting next to him and taking his hands in yours.

"You'll be fine I promise. Have I ever broken a promise to you?" 

He shakes his head, eyes never leaving yours and another pang of guilt strikes you. All your promises. If only you'd broken a few key oathes he wouldn't be this bad. You shake it off, leaning in and pressing your forehead to his. 

"I love you John, I'm going to take care of you." You pause, chewing your lip thoughtfully before you finish speaking. "You know I'd do anything for you."

This time he smiles, the same eager smile that had drawn you to him in the first place and you're struck with such a powerful surge of love for him that its almost crippling. You let go of one of his hands to reach up and cup his face, the bones so fragile under the once tanned skin, now sallowed and gaunt against the angle of calcium beneath. Gliding your thumb along the curve of his lips before pressing your mouth to his. His fingers tighten in yours and as you pull back from him, you can see the pain and fear in his eyes. It's always like this and you hate yourself for being upset with him. It's not his fault, and the best you can do is make sure he's safe. 

"Here."

You pull away from him, standing up and tugging your wallet from your back pocket. He watches and says nothing, eyes following your movements like a hungry dog waiting for scraps to hit the floor. You bargain with yourself. Tell yourself its either this, or you come home to find him on the floor convulsing, or worse; you come home and he's gone again. Gone and you have to search the slums for him, calling his name in the flop houses, searching for his face among the diseased and homeless. 

You'd rather not go through that again. The time at the health clinic. Waiting for the tests to come back. Abstaining from sex until the call informing you both that he is HIV negative. STD negative. Hepatitis free. 

You can't do it again. The last time almost broke him, almost broke you, and the wait is like a loaded gun pressed to your cheek; cold metal caressing your skin. 

"I was saving this for an emergency... but you can have it now I'll get more."

Pulling the thin white square from your wallet as you walk back to him, his eyes crawling over you, face flushing as realization dawns on him.

"Oh! Oh yea man, wow! That's enough, geez thanks Dave!"

Again you feel guilt pierce your chest at the innocent glee lighting up his face. This is your fault. You made your bed and now you'll watch your boyfriend die in it. 

Smiling weakly, you sit back down and he turns away from you, bouncing slightly in excitement. To an outsider it would look like a kid who'd just fooled his parents into giving him what he wanted, an elaborate act to force your hand and make you give up your bluff. And it's not that he isn't capable of such a ruse. You've been with him long enough, been feeding his addiction long enough to know the difference between need and want.

With John it was not longer want. It had stopped being a matter of want when you'd come home to find him on the bathroom floor, bloody foam issuing from between his teeth as his limbs snapped and shook. He'd nearly bitten through his tongue during that first grand mal seizure and after that you'd promised him that it would never happen again. That you'd make sure he got what he needed with out resorting to dirty street heroin.

His back is to you now and you lean forward, fingers sweeping his dark locks from his neck. Clearing a space for the fentanyl patch. He squirms under your touch, giggling as you press your lips to his neck first, like you always do. He smells of dove soap and you linger for a moment, breathing him in and pretending you're not about to put 100 micrograms of sustained release opiates on your boyfriend's skin. You pull back, blinking away the tears forming and quickly rip the package open and peel off the clear backing.  
With practiced movements you place the patch on his last cervical vertebrae, smoothing it over the protruding bone then letting his hair fall over it. You drop your hands from his neck, snaking them around his waist and pulling him back into you as you trail kisses along his neck, stopping when you reach his ear.

"You know the drill. Dont mess with it okay?" 

"I know I know. I won't, I promise." He giggles and cants his head to bring his mouth to yours and you pray he doesn't see the tears in your eyes.

\--------------------------------  
"Two pills just weren't enough.  
The alarm clock's going off  
but you're not waking up.  
This isn't happening, happening, happening,  
happening, happening. It is."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title and quote are from the Bright Eyes song of the same name. This is probably going to be a reoccurring theme because I am lame.


	2. No One Would Riot For Less

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flashback chapter.

The steady beep of the heart monitor and the whooshing noise of the respirator are the only sounds breaking the stagnant air of the room. The heavy antiseptic scent, sanitized and sterilized, stinging your nostrils and covering up the stink of decay. The whisper of your fingers against the sheets as you tuck them around the bed. Everything weighs upon you as you busy yourself, trying your best to keep your eyes off the figure in the bed. It's too much and its too late and its your fault.

With nothing left in the room to do, you finally plant yourself in the chair next to the bed, becoming part of the scenery. A living fixture in a dead space. 

\-------------

The wall clock ticks the seconds by as your eyes follow the slim needle around. Over and over. Watching the time pass has become a constant. Another way you make it through the days while the monitor beeps and the respirator wooshes, signaling another inhaling, another exhaling. How long until he breathes on his own? No one will answer you when you ask and you feel the looks they give you as you turn away, the whispered words as the nurses speak in hushed tones about the boy in room 413. 

Clenched fists are all you have, nails biting into the palm of your hands as you shove them deep into your hoodie and walk away from the nurse's desk. Everyday is the same. The same questions, the same whispered words, the same pitied looks. and still he doesn't wake. 

\--------------

You pull the curtains back, letting the meager rays of light into the stale room. You've brought another plant. Ivy this time and you arrange it in the dying light of the setting sun. You know in a week it will be dead. No matter how much you water it and reposition it to get light. Nothing in this room lives.

And the monitor continues to beep.

\-------------

Another day. Another set of questions and this time anger tints your voice when the doctors brush you off. How long is he going to be like this? They don't answer. They only look away when you raise your voice. And when your fist slams into the desk the youngest nurse squeaks, jumping in her seat. But her eyes don't turn towards you and you can feel hatred churning your stomach. Hatred for this place, for their cold indifference. For the crisp linens, the stale air and the antiseptic scent that clings to you after you leave. But you are leaving less and less now. There's a pile of your things in the corner of his room, you haven't showered and the scent of death permeates every part of you now.

The journey back to his room is a silent one, eyes averting as you pass. No one wants to look at the lover of the boy in room 413. No one wants to feel the pain radiating from you in tangible waves. And when the tears come, no one is there to dry them, to wipe them from your cheeks and tell you everything will be ok.

\----------

You watch the clock and think about the last time you saw him smile, the way his lips pull past his ever prominent buckteeth. That innocent grin that's so infectious it doesn't matter how foul your mood is, when he turns it in your direction you can't help smiling back. 

Your eyes stray to the figure in the bed, wishing for one more smile from him. Willing him to open his eyes and stare back at you, that infectious grin spreading across his boyish face. But he doesn't and you don't. Instead you hang your head in your hands and you cry. You cry and you let the guilt seep from your eyes, carving a wet path down your cheeks to drip silently against the linoleum. 

You'd watch him from the window, watch him stand at the bus stop. You'd watch him from the window and frown at his back. And when he turned around to catch you looking, to stare up at your face in the window of the apartment he'd almost smiled until he remembered why he was down there. That first time was the worst, you'd waited and waited, not sure if he was coming back or what he was doing. But when the Metro came back around in an hour, he had been among the faces leaving the bus. 

It became routine. You would argue about something stupid and John would leave, huffing his way to the bus stop in front of the apartment to ride the Metro bus on its circuit up the 610 and through the Northside. By the time the bus dropped him back off in front of the run down complex he had conveniently forgotten what you two had been fighting about. It was like this for weeks after your brother's funeral and John knew you better than you knew yourself, giving you the time you needed to heal. The time you needed to reconcile with yourself in the quiet of the apartment. The hour trips around the 5th ward of Houston gave you the little bits of silence you needed to heal. 

After a while you stopped starting arguments to get him to leave, and you realized one day what had been going on. That he was giving you the space you needed without being intrusive about it, without making a big deal. You realized this and you felt a surge of love for the boy who'd grown to know you better than you knew yourself. 

Instead of burying yourself under a mountain of blankets, pretending to be asleep, you waited at the window for him to return. So you could tell him your revelation, that you were wise to his tricks. The games could end now and everything could go back to the way it was. 

A smile plays at the corner of your lips when you see the bus round the corner and its all you can do to keep from bounding out the front door to meet him. You keep still, watching the silhouettes shuffling off the bus, eyes searching for the familiar shape of the boy who knew you better than you knew yourself.

You're still smiling when the bus pulls away, even as your heart sinks and a knot of panic begins to form in your guts, you're still smiling.

It's late and you haven't moved from your place by the window. The minutes tick by and still he doesn't come. The bus has cycled by 3 more times and each stop your heart flutters and you search the faces of the bus patrons in the light of the setting sun. But still he doesn't emerge from the belly of the beast. The knot in your guts twists, coiling and growing with each pass of the Metro until finally you break down and call his cell phone again, panic sinking into your bones when it goes to voicemail for the 8th time. And still he doesn't come.

You're awake when the call comes and you scramble to slide the lock on your phone, answering briskly, ready to scold him for worrying you, telling him you were on your way to unlock the door, that you already knew he forgot his keys. But it's not him and the voice on the other line is asking you to come down to Northwest Medical Center and your heart is sinking; sinking to the pit of your stomach and you know, oh god you know the trauma center is there and no no no no. This isn't happening.

There's no one there to pick you up off the floor this time.

\--------------

They had to put a shunt in yesterday. You talked with doctor at length about the procedure, going over the details before finally signing off the medical release. You never knew John had a living will or that he named you his power of attorney if anything happened to him. You knew he had you as his emergency contact, you were his only family, and he yours. But the rest... you never knew until now that if John was on the cusp of life and death that it would be you charged with the task of deciding to pull the plug. That if he went brain dead it would be you who made the decision to keep him on the ventilators. 

This is a terrible way to find out how much power you have over a human life. Over a life that you cherish and love. This is terrible.

The procedure went off without a hitch, and now the ventriculo-peritoneal shunt is in place, draining the excess cerebral spinal fluid from his skull when the pressure becomes too much. The doctor explained the mechanics of the preset valve, that it was set to respond to a specific pressure. So when the fluid builds up in the space around his skull, the pump automatically turns on and drains it to another part of his body. You were told it's being relocated and reabsorbed. You don't want to know the details, but you listen anyway, soaking up the information while the boy you love lays in the bed motionless. 

\-------------

You've taken to sleeping in the lobby at odd intervals. And you've stopped going home, choosing to stay at the hospital, wandering the halls to pass the time now, peeking in on other patients. The nurses stopped hassling you. You are just the lover of the boy in 413 and you've become a permanent fixture now. 

You've been staring at the tv in the lobby for the last few hours. It's always on mute and you've become a proficient lip reader. You're half way through an episode of the Price is Right when the detective working John's case steps in front of you. Your eyes snap to his face, expecting another monotone speech about how there are no leads, no witnesses, yadda yadda yadda. You sit up straight when you see the look on his face, fists clenching as he explains the results of the rape kit and you can hear your teeth grinding in your head. He doesn't give you details, knowing you already have them. You saw John in the trauma center, saw the blood. You know how severely he was beaten. The metal plates holding his skull together can attest to the brutality of it all. 

He doesn't give you the details, but he does give you a name.

\---------------

It's been two weeks, and when you stroll through the doors of the ICU the nurse doesn't look up from her magazine. You shove your hands in your pockets and head to his room. Nothing's changed except the sheets. 

You take your place beside him, pulling the chair up next to the bed and hooking your fingers with his, running the pad of your thumb over his knuckles as you whisper his name. Your own knuckles are raw, the flesh shredded and peeling. The scabs crack when you flex your hand and blood seeps between them as you whisper to the boy in the bed. The pieces of flesh missing from your fist look suspiciously like teeth marks, and if you look at them just the right way you could almost imagine the curve of a canine pressing into the hollow between your knuckles. 

No one asks about your absence. No one asks where you've been. And no one says anything about the news reports. About the man found beaten to death in his home. And when the cop tells you that the leads have dried up, that the only suspect was murdered in a gang related incident you keep your hands shoved deep in your pockets so he doesn't see the ugly red scars that are forming.

\------------

It's a few weeks later when the boy in 413 opens his eyes and you race to his room after the nurse comes up to you at the coffee machine, cup forgotten and over flowing underneath the dispenser. 

You stand in the doorway, mouth working soundlessly, the bright azure of his eyes meeting the crimson of your own and you can't stop the tears from spilling down your face as you take a shaky step into the room. The beeping of the monitor speeds up as you make your way to his side and your own heart flutters against your rib cage; like a trapped bird beating its wings in the confines of its cage and you can feel yourself on the verge of collapse. 

"John."

You stop at his bedside, and finally, finally you do collapse, dropping to your knees as you grip his hand, bringing it to your face; kissing his knuckles as you weep against the sheets. 

"I'm sorry John, I'm so, so sorry. I'll never let you leave again. I promise."

\--------------

"So love me now  
Hell is coming  
Kiss my mouth  
Hell is here"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the chapter name and quote at the end are both from the Bright Eyes song of the same name.


End file.
